


wee small hours

by 100demons



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Major Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:25:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He kicks the broken shards into the water and they’re borne away on the waves, into the distance, somewhere far away from here. “I want to go home,” he says bleakly. “I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s like a sick joke—I sleep for seventy years and I wake up and everything I know is gone, everyone I know is dead and I’m walking around not a day older, carrying the same shield I went to war with.”</p><p>In the wee small hours of the morning, Steve and Tony drink and talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	wee small hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [endquestionmark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/endquestionmark/gifts).



It burns in his mouth, hot fire and tangy-sweetness that slides down his throat and into his stomach. Steve breathes out, long and low, and he can see his hot breath mist in the air, tinged with the heat from the liquor. It doesn’t do anything, not really, and even the warmth burning deep in his stomach is just an illusion.

His comm’s buried in the sand behind him, tucked under his shield, far away enough that he can’t hear it chirp and buzz every couple of minutes. Just another illusion, but he takes comfort in it, like the bottles of vodka lined up before him on the shoreline, a cold silvery-white in the moonlight.

There’s something soft shuffling behind him; Steve cocks an ear—it’s someone who’s not too big; light, and probably unarmed. Strangely, he finds that he doesn’t care too much. It’s a cold, cold night and the wind is creeping into his old bones, twining its slender fingers around his throat.

“How’s your metabolism keeping up?” Tony says behind him, his voice rough, like it’s not used to speaking so low.

Steve shrugs and finishes the rest of the bottle before setting it in front of him, a whole line of empty vodka bottles standing ready in front of him, a platoon of glass soldiers who’ve done their duty. “S’okay,” he says. “Don’t exactly have much of a buzz going on right now.”

“That’s your sixth bottle,” Tony says, sharp and cold, his words edged in steel and it’s funny how the situation’s turned on them like this, how he’s the one sitting down on the ground looking at the moon like an irresponsible drunk and how Tony’s standing above him, looking as disapproving as Nick Fury.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, noncommittal.

“Are you—“ Tony breathes in and laughs, settling down on the ground so that he’s sitting cross-legged on the sand, right next to Steve. “Jesus,” Tony says. “I’m not exactly used to being the disappointed authority figure here.”

“It’s a good look for you,” Steve says and rifles through the plastic bag at his side—it’s tequila this time. He remembers having it for the first time, just a year—no, it would be over seventy years ago, now—when the stuff was flooding into the country. One sip and he coughed it all over the table, Bucky swearing and slapping his back, saying, _Honestly, Rogers, I paid good money for that hooch._

“You want some?” he asks, offering him the bottle.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking that unaged crap,” Tony sniffs but he takes it all the same, popping the cap with an easy, practiced twist. “To memories of MIT,” he toasts, raising the bottle before taking a deep swig. “Christ, tastes just as awful as I remember,” Tony laughs and hands the bottle back, wiping his mouth with the sleeve jacket of a suit that probably costs more than Steve's entire month’s pay.

“Me too,” Steve says. “I never really liked it, but Bucky—he—he uh…he was a fan.” The conversation dies after that and there’s a long, awkward silence.

“You—I’ve never seen you skip the after-mission debrief before,” Tony says, breaking the quiet without his usual flair. “You weren’t—you just left.”

The drink tastes like D-rations and wood chips ground up and boiled in water—he closes his eyes and tosses it back, welcoming the bitter aftertaste. It’s the only thing he has left.

“Steve, are you listening to me? Are you—“

 ---

“—you alright?”

His head is pounding, he can’t see straight and it feels like he just got run over by a runaway train. “I’m fine,” Steve grits out, finger on his comm. “Just a little stuck, should have seen the pillars shifting but—“

“No buts,” Natasha says firmly. “We should have all seen it coming. How are your limbs?”

He moves his fingers and arms cautiously and shifts his legs as much as he can. “Might have a fracture in my left leg, nothing big. Oh and bruised ribs. Maybe a concussion—“ The beam above him wavers a little and Steve blinks, hard. “Okay, definitely a concussion. Other than that, I’m fine.”

“Oh, a fractured bone, some cracked and bruised ribs, and a concussion and he’s _fine_ he says,” Natasha breathes out sarcastically, but he can hear the concern in her voice.

“Healing factor,” Steve reminds her and wishes that his ribs would remember that too and stop aching with every breath. “I’ll be fine. Just focus on getting everyone—hang on.” He holds his breath and closes his eyes, listening.

“Who’s there?”

“ _Mama_ , _Mama help me, Mama_ —“

“Natasha, do you hear that—“

“Hear what, Steve, slow down, I can’t understand what you’re saying—“

“I think—I think it’s a little girl—how many people are still missing from the list?” he demands.

“I—hold on—“ There’s an achingly long pause before she comes back on the line, pages ruffling in the background. “Six children, a teacher and an aide are still reportedly—“

“ _Six_ ,” Steve breathes out. “I think I just found one.”

\---

“—listening right now or are you just ignoring me?”

Steve holds the empty bottle in hand, a little bemused. Hadn’t it just been full a moment ago?

“ _Steve_ —“

Tony swipes at the bottle in Steve’s hand but he’s too slow and more than a little tipsy. “I don’t understand,” Tony spits, frustration edging at his voice. “What’s eating at you?”

He sets the bottle right next to the empty bottles of vodka and now there are seven little soldiers who’ve done their duty, standing so tall and strong and empty, all used up. Their job is done. “Nothing,” Steve says. “Nothing’s eating at me.”

“Well, they certainly didn’t hire you for your skill for lying.” Tony lies back down on the ground and he can feel the vibrations in the sand, shifting as they react to the other man’s weight.

“No, not really,” Steve agrees and thinks back to Ohio, to Pennsylvania, to New Jersey and their recruiting offices. _The first country Germany invaded was their own, you know_. “What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“What the—“ Tony shakes his head and starts all over again. “I’m _this_ close to getting a Breathalyzer and testing your blood alcohol level. ‘I can’t get drunk’—bullshit.”

“I wanted to be a soldier like my Dad,” Steve says. “Private First Class Joseph Rogers. He’s buried somewhere over in France—it’s what my Ma used to say. And then, you know, there were hard times and lots of people were saying there wasn’t going to be a war any more, that the last one was it. The War that ended all war. And you know how that went.”

“World War Two,” Tony mutters.

“World War Two,” Steve echoes. “And then I did become one—a soldier, I mean. And that was—it was awful, but just knowing that I _could_ do something…but it wasn’t for me. I wasn’t going to be a career soldier.”

“What, Steve Rogers, a regular old civvie?” Tony teases, rolling over so that he’s lying on his side now, head leaning on his hand.

“Yeah, maybe,” he admits, a little shyly. “Art school, even. Maybe—maybe even—“ _After all this is over, we’re going to go dancing, Steve, at the old club. I’ll be in my best dress and I’ll show you a step or two_ …

“You, a family man?” Tony jokes.

Anger burns white-hot in his chest and Steve snaps, “What’s so wrong with that?”

Tony’s eyes widen and his mouth is wide open but there’s nothing coming out of it for a long moment. “I didn’t—“ Tony rolls onto his back again and the distance between the two of them is a bottomless abyss.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, rubbing his face with calloused hands. “I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says stiffly. “I shouldn’t have made that comment.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “It was thoughtless.”

“What more do you want, I _apologized_ , I said I was fucking sorry—“

“I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to be here—I want to go back, I want to see Bucky and Peggy and my pals, I want to go dancing and see my friends and—and—“ The glass bottles fall to the ground and shatter under his boots, ground down into dust. “I want to go back home,” he says hoarsely, looking out at the waves. “I want to go—“

\---

“— _home_ — _Mama—_ “

“Hello?” he shouts. “Are you there—hello?”

“ _Help—help me—_ ”

“I’m Captain America—are you there? It’s Captain America—help is on the way.” It sounds stupid and the words keep tangling in his mouth but there’s a little girl out there, crying for help. “Natasha,” he says tersely into his comm. “How long until you can get someone down here?”

“Tony’s halfway around the world in Shanghai and it’ll be hours before any EMT workers will be able to get down to your level—“

“We don’t have hours,” Steve says fiercely. “Who knows how long she’s been down there, she could be running out of air and the minute she stops yelling—“

“I know, we might not be able to find her,” she says gently, her sigh a rush of static on the channel. “But those _are_ the numbers and it’s not looking very good.”

Frustration builds in the base of the throat and he can’t breathe, he can’t swallow, he can’t do _anything_ but sit here like a useless lump and listen to the little girl’s cries get fainter and fainter. “I don’t care,” Steve barks. “You get every single available personnel working on _her_ , do you understand me? I’m no longer your priority—find the girl.”

“Understood, Captain.”

There’s a click and the channel goes dead.

“… _mama…_ ”

“It’s okay,” Steve whispers in the dark. “It’ll be alright, just hang on for just a little while longer. Please, please just hang on…”

\---

“—back to the New York that I _know_ , not—not all this.” He kicks the broken shards into the water and they’re borne away on the waves, into the distance, somewhere far away from here. “I want to go home,” he says bleakly. “I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s like a sick joke—I sleep for seventy years and I wake up and everything I know is gone, everyone I know is dead and I’m walking around not a day older, carrying the same shield I went to war with.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder and Steve flinches, but it’s only Tony, Tony Stark, son of Howard Stark, the man who made his shield and flew him over enemy lines, the man who he joked with and played cards with; he has Howard’s eyes and Howard’s genius and it’s a little painful to look at Tony sometimes and to see his friend’s face here but _not_ here, where everything is all jumbled up and smashed to pieces like one of Picasso’s paintings.

“I’m sorry,” Tony rasps quietly. “I didn’t—I didn’t realize—“

Steve shakes his head. “It’s—fine. I shouldn’t have—it was irresponsible of me to…” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “There was a little girl today. She couldn’t have been more than—more than six, maybe seven. Her name was—”

\---

“Janie,” Natasha says. “Her name was Janie, we’ve contacted her mother and she’s en route now to the…”

She’s so light. It’s almost indescribable. She’s like a feather in his hands, so delicate and soft, and so _small_. Her hair is braided into pretty little twists with blue ribbons ties at the end, framing her face like a halo. There’s a bruise on her left cheek and blood caked on her hairline; he wets his handkerchief from his canteen and gently wipes her face clean, over her little lashes and her delicate brow.

It almost looks like she’s sleeping, her eyes shut closed, her lips slightly parted. But it’s all an illusion; her chest is still and her cheeks are stone-cold. He smoothes her hair one last time and slowly, carefully, sets her down on the white stretcher on the ground before pulling a sheet over her face.

**Author's Note:**

> to ascheche, who listened to me babble about _drive_ incessantly and fixed my badfic. you're the bestest best ever, monochrome widow. /dazzles


End file.
